


call it magic, call it true

by decinq



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Fluff, M/M, Schmoop, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-23 00:51:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4856921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decinq/pseuds/decinq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Bits,” Holster says. “Don’t mock that shit. They used to burn people <i>alive</i>.”</p><p> </p><p>“Let the flames lick your bones and laugh, Joan,” Shitty says, and Bittle snorts. Jack tucks his bodywash under his arm and leaves them to it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	call it magic, call it true

**Author's Note:**

> this is for kim (ao3 wouldn't let me gift it to you smh) who was sad and told me what she wanted, and so i wrote it! i hope this is up to your expectations, and that it helps you feel even a little bit better. 
> 
> the title is from coldplay's 'magic' because i am a ridiculous person. i know nothing about ssu's hockey team, and i'm sure they don't put curses on stupid boys, but alas. like i said: ridiculous person.
> 
> (i'm on [tumblr](http://www.bittyjack.tumblr.com) if u wanna say hey)

If Jack had been asked about magic on Thursday, he would’ve said he didn’t believe in it.

Or, well. That’s not exactly true. Jack would probably have narrowed his eyes and scowled.

But before Friday, Jack didn’t believe in magic.

 ****  


* * *

 

Funny, isn’t it? How quickly things change.

 ****  


* * *

 

They play against the Vikings and they win. It’s a fine game.

On his way to the showers, Ransom says, “This place is creepy. What if they try to, like, smite us for beating their asses?”

“Smite us?” Bittle asks. He looks like he kind of wants to laugh. Jack bites back a smile.

“Bits,” Holster says. “Don’t mock that shit. They used to burn people _alive_.”

“Let the flames lick your bones and laugh, Joan,” Shitty says, and Bittle snorts. Jack tucks his bodywash under his arm and leaves them to it.

 ****  
  


* * *

 

They’re on their way back to the bus. Bittle is gesticulating while they rehash the last few minutes of the game on their walk through the parking lot. Jack moves to adjust the strap on his gear bag and accidentally knocks his shoulder into someone.

“Sorry,” Jack says.

“Right,” the guy says. He runs the back of his hand under his nose and makes a snorting sound. Jack’s shoulders tense.

Shitty knocks his own shoulder into the guy and says, “Didn’t see you there, kinda like the way you can’t see a puck until it’s in the back of your net.”

Bittle’s fingers wrap gently around Jack’s wrist, and Jack ducks his head.

Shitty says, “That’s what I thought,” louder than he needs to. Bittle squeezes his hand around Jack’s wrist again, and Jack lets his fingers graze the back of Bittle’s hand before he starts walking again. They stow their bags in the bottom of the bus before boarding.

Bittle ducks into his seat first, and Jack waits as he pulls his phone and textbook from messenger bag before holding his hand out to take it from Bittle. He stores it above their seats and takes his spot in the aisle.

They say their numbers for the headcount and then Bittle asks, “You okay?”

Jack nods. “All good,” he says.

 ****  
  


* * *

 

Jack falls asleep with one of Bittle’s earphones in his right ear. When they get back to campus, Shitty smacks Jack on the shoulder and says, “Up and at ‘em, loverboy.”

Jack blinks awake and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. “I’m awake,” he says. He feels groggy, exhausted and over-warm. His eyelids feel like sandpaper.

 ****  
  


* * *

****  


 

Because it’s Friday, and because Jack has apparently no autonomy whatsoever, Shitty drags everyone in the Haus to some trivia night across campus. Jack says, “I think I’m getting sick, I kinda want to stay home,” and Shitty rolls his eyes.

“You look fine.” He smacks a kiss onto Jack’s forehead. “You don’t feel warm,” he says, pulling away. Jack shoves at him, and he laughs.

“For a bit,” Jack says.

 ****  
  


* * *

 

Jack nurses his cup of half orange juice half cranberry juice for an hour or so, and Shitty keeps going up to the bar to buy pitchers of beer. The place is an absolute dive, but the guy bartending is in one of Shitty’s classes or something, Jack can’t remember, and so the Frogs are able to indulge.

Jack rubs at his eyes when he can’t remember the answer for a trivia question about political leaders from the 1940s, and he catches Bittle yawning out of the corner of his eye.

“You tired?” Bittle shrugs. “You wanna go home?” Jack asks, and Bittle looks like he actually thinks about it before saying that yeah, actually, that’d be good.

Bittle pushes his half finished beer into the middle of the table and says, “I might be coming down with something, but y’all’re heathens anyway.”

Jack doesn’t wait to see which of the frogs mooches it.

 ****  
  


* * *

 

 

 

On the walk back, Jack ends up throwing his hoodie over Bittle’s shoulders. “You don’t have a fever, do you?” Jack asks. It’s March, though; it’s warming up, really, and even though it’s late, he doesn’t think it’s cold enough for Bittle’s teeth to be chattering.

“I don’t know,” Bittle says. “I think ‘m just tired.”

Jack’s tired, too.

 ****  
  


* * *

****  
  
  


When Jack wakes up the next morning, he feels fine. He stretches his arms above his head and rolls onto his side. He needs to get up eventually, should probably go for a run and eat. He has research to do. He can afford to stay in bed for another five minutes.

When he does get up, he pulls sweats on over his boxers, finds clean socks. He pads to the bathroom, pisses and brushes his teeth and pokes at his face. On his way back to his room, the door across from his swings open and--

Someone who is definitely not Johnson is rubbing at his eyes, and then he stops and says, “Oh. Um.”

“Uh, hey,” Jack says.

The guy looks down at himself, in his sleep pants and a SMH sweatshirt, and he says, again, “Oh.”

It takes Jack a second to realize that the sweatshirt is far too big on the guy, hangs past his wrists and too wide at the shoulders. There’s a number 1 on the sleeve. Oh.

The guy says, “Are you, um. Jack Zimmermann?”

“Uh,” Jack says. “Yes.”

 

“Huh,” the guy says.

“Who’re you?” Jack asks.

“Bittle,” he says. “Uh. Eric Bittle.”

“Why’re you in Johnson’s room?”

“Oh, um. I don’t know. I kinda think it’s my room? It’s my stuff in there, I think. Is this a dream?”

“What?” Jack asks. He leans to peak into Johnson’s room and sure enough, none of Johnson’s stuff is in there. It looks different than it did yesterday. Although when Jack thinks about it, he doesn’t know what day today is, doesn’t know what day yesterday would have been.

Jack starts breathing too quickly. He doesn’t even notice.

“Whoa, hey, Jack,” Bittle says, stepping towards Jack. Jack jerks back reflexively.

Bittle puts his hands up in the air, steps back. He’s not a threat to Jack. He’s half of Jack’s size. Jack tries to focus on what is real, what he can account for. He doesn’t feel like he has a concussion. He feels great, actually, when he’s objective about it. He inhales slowly, counts to three, then exhales. He repeats it as needed, until he can feel his heart rate leveling out to something more normal.

“Do you know what day it is?” Jack asks.

“Um,” Bittle says. He pauses, and his eyes narrow a bit before a laugh huffs out of him. “No idea,” he says, still kind of giggling. “This is the weirdest dream I’ve ever had.”

“I don’t think it’s a dream,” Jack says. “I’ll check on my phone.” Jack goes back into his room, leaves the door open. He unplugs his phone from his charger, and it looks different than he remembers, but he can’t name how. Bigger, maybe. The unlock screen looks off, too, but it’s a hard difference to place. Like his brain immediately accepts it as a new kind of normal.

He taps in his code, and luckily it works. “Huh,” Jack says.

“What?” Bittle asks. He’s leaning in Jack’s doorway with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Well it, um. It says it’s March of 20-15. March 21st.”

Bittle shakes his head. “It’s Saturday.”

“That too,” Jack says.

Bittle crosses the room and says, “This isn’t possible.” He’s starting to sound kind of panicked, which--Jack guesses they’re done with the Dream Theory, then.

Jack turns his phone screen to him, and he takes it in his hand.

“Well,” he says. He hands the phone back to Jack. “This sure is wild.”

Jack is only just noticing his accent, the way his voice twangs gently.

“That’s it?” Jack asks, although he thinks he gets it. He’s feeling oddly calm considering.

Bittle shrugs, and says, “I guess I can check my own phone. But I imagine it’ll be pretty much the same.”

Jack scrolls through his phone, and when he pulls up his text messages, he’s not even really surprised by what he finds. The first thread is Shitty, a drunken attempt that says _u shoudlev styaed, everyhig is hist questons!!!!!!!!!!_

__

He doesn’t know what that’s about, so he ignores it. He has to scroll past a thread with his mom, one titled SMH, but the fourth down the list is a thread is with Eric Bittle, and when Jack opens it. There are more emoticons than Jack would ever think he’d use. He scrolls through them quickly, reads _hey bitty, wanna study at annies at 4? :)_ and _wanna go for a run after seminar? :)_ and _my mom says hi haha_

And the thing is, Jack isn’t even surprised. Bittle  is making to stand from Jack’s bed, and he's…well. Jack clearly has a type. Plus he’s wearing Jack’s hoodie and apparently lives across the hall. Jack’s--Jack’s not really shocked. At all.

“Um,” he says, and Bittle stops in his tracks. “Before, um--” He holds his phone out to Bittle, and Bittle takes it. “Look at these.”

Bittle reads the messages, and Jack watches as his eyebrows draw together.

“I--” Bittle starts. Stops. His eyes go wide. “Oh shit.” He hands the phone back to Jack and says, “I, uh. I don’t think I’m...I don’t think I would have come out to anyone. Um. Or. At least. I don’t remember.”

He’s starting to look how Jack felt out in the hallway: actually panicked, actually scared. Jack takes a deep breath and says, “I mean, me neither but that doesn’t really change that I’m--” he makes a vague hand gesture at himself.

“You’re gay?” Bittle asks, and Jack laughs.

“Uh,” Jack says. “I mean, yeah. But I think we’re, like. You read the messages. You’re wearing my clothes.”

“Oh,” Bittle says. And then starts laughing. It’s a bit hysterical, Jack thinks. Maybe a lot hysterical. “Oh my god,” he says.

Jack huffs, indignant. “It’s not funny,” he says. He likes to think that he’s a better boyfriend than the last time he tried, but.

“No, no,” Bittle says, waving him off. “No, it’s just. You’re Jack Zimmermann. And my shoulders are a lot broader than I thought they were. In my head I feel like it’s, I don’t know, I guess two years ago? But that also seems wrong?” He looks down at himself, takes in the SMH logo on the sweatshirt. “I guess it’s nice to know that I get into my first pick for schools.”

Jack is about to say, “This is fucked,” when a bout of laughter rattles through the Haus from the kitchen.

“Do we have, like, roomates?” Bittle asks.

“Oh,” Jack says. “Uh, well, this is my room for sure. In the Haus. Uhm. The Samwell Men’s Hockey team, a few of us live here.” Bittle nods, and Jack says, “Although I’m not sure who is all here. You’ve apparently taken over our goalie’s room, so.” Jack shrugs.

“Should we, um. Go down there?”

As soon as he says it, Jack realizes he’s starving. “I’m starving,” he says.

Bittle smiles. “Alright, well,” he says. “That’s one thing I do know how to handle. Think this place has any eggs?”

 ****  


* * *

 

Jack rests his hand on Bittle’s lower back as they make their way down the stairs. He can hear Shitty’s snorting laugh before they get to the kitchen, and he relaxes. “Do we pretend everything is normal?” Bittle asks, and Jack shrugs behind him.

“I guess so,” he whispers. “How good are you at improv? Because I’m horrible.”

A burst of laughter leaves Bittle and he says, “We’ll see how it goes. No promises, though.”

He moves his hand to squeeze at Bittle’s shoulder as they step into the kitchen before he lets his hand drops back to the small of his back. He gently nudges Bittle towards the fridge and says, “Over medium.”

“I know,” Bittle says, and then his brow furrows.

Shitty is chuckling but it dies in his throat when he looks up at them, looks back from Jack to Bittle and back. His eyes go wide, and Jack can feel his cheeks turning pink. He reroutes on his way to the table and detours to the fridge, reaches around Bittle to grab the carton of milk from the fridge. He says, “Morning, Shits,” and he watches Bittle’s eyes go wide, watches the horror and then amusement cross his face.

“Sup, loverboy?” Shitty says. Jack takes a sip of milk from the carton and Bittle hits him in the stomach.

“That’s disgusting. You’re disgusting.”

Jack wipes his hands over the back of his mouth and shrugs. “Too late now,” he says. Bittle passes him a cup but he’s smiling when Jack meets his eye.

“Feeling better?” Shitty asks. He’s smirking, and Jack rolls his eyes at him before taking a seat across from him at the table.

“Fine,” he says. “Bittle and I were gonna go for a run after breakfast,” he says, gauging.

“Oh were we?” Bittle asks, teasing.

“I’m sure you and Bits’ll have a good time. Lardo and I are gonna be in the library for most of the day if you need to find me.”

“Where’s everyone else?” Jack asks.

“Rans and Holster are still asleep I think. Frogs went back to their dorms last night.”

Jack nods, taking in the information as casually as he can. It makes sense that Ransom and Holster would’ve gotten dibs after their freshman year. They’re cool guys.

Bittle is humming to himself as he makes their food, and he says, “Have you eaten yet?” without looking over his shoulder at them.

Shitty says, “Yeah, but thanks.” He’s making faces at Jack, lifting his eyebrows and smirking.

Jack ignores him and says, “When’re you leaving?”

Shitty raises his hands in a non-threatening gesture, and mouths, “Okay,” before saying, “I’m gonna shower and then head out.” He stands to leave and claps Jack on the shoulder as he goes.

Bittle puts a plate down in front of Jack with eggs and toast, and then says, “I tried to figure it out, but this is the fanciest coffee machine I’ve ever seen.”

Jack turns around, and says, “Christ, it looks like something from Spy Kids.”

Bittle laughs and then asks, “Is his name Shitty? Is that what you called him? God.”

Jack starts laughing, says, “Oh, Jesus, yeah. I mean, his name’s Bernard but don’t tell him I told you that.”

Bittle nods and says, “Okay. Shitty. And Lardo is?”

“I think she’s a freshman in one of his gender classes, but that doesn’t mean much, I don’t think. Ransom and Holster play defense. And I guess they live here too, now.”

“And Shitty calls you ‘Loverboy,’” Bittle says around a bite of eggs.

Jack shrugs. “He never did before but, um. That might be because of you, honestly.”

Bittle nods. “Okay. So that’s kind of cool. That he knows.” Jack’s not sure that Shitty did know, but he ignores it. He swallows his food and says, “I’m happy that I get here, get brave and feel safe enough to be out. That’s. I’m from Georgia,” he says.

Jack says, “You have an accent.”

“So do you,” Bittle says. “Wait,” he says. “Are you out? You’re, like, kinda famous. That’d be a big deal.”

“I--” Jack says. “Fuck, I have no idea.” Jack puts his fork down and pulls his phone from his pocket. He google searches _j_ _ack zimmermann gay_ , but nothing really pops up.

“Doesn’t look like it,” Jack says. “My parents know, and so does Shitty, but that’s it, probably.”

“Okay,” Bittle says. He nods again, takes another bite of his food. With his mouth full of toast he says, “It’s only ten and it’s already been one heck of a day.”

“What’s it called when you have memory loss?” Jack asks.

Bittle says, “Amnesia?” Jack fails to keep the smile from cracking across his face, and Bittle laughs. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I fell for that.”

Jack smiles and says, “Amnesia and a secret relationship. ‘s kind of a lot to wake up to.”

“Baby steps,” Bittle says. “Can we actually go for that run? Maybe you can show me around? We’re gonna have to figure out what’s going on.”

 ****  


* * *

 

 

 

They run over the bridge, past Annie’s. It’s overcast but not too cold. Bittle shivers even though he layered up. They stop to stretch, and Jack is struck at how comfortable he feels. A few hours ago, Bittle was a stranger. Or, well, yesterday they were boyfriends, he guesses, but when Jack woke up this morning, those memories slipped away somehow, and he doesn’t want them to be lost forever. As they walk slowly towards the Humanities building, Jack is struck by the thought that he might never remember: Bittle’s shoulder keeps knocking his arm, and their hands bump against each other where they’re swinging at their sides. Bittle shivers and Jack runs his hands up and down over Bittle’s sweatshirt to warm him up. Bittle smiles, and Jack’s sure that there was a first time when that happened. Jack can’t remember the first easy touches, can’t remember the feeling of kissing him for the first time. He tries and tries, and they fall quiet on their walk but Jack can’t be bothered to make small talk when all he can feel is an ache where their happiness probably sits on a normal day.

He says, “I’m sorry this is happening,” even though he knows it’s not his fault. He feels really, really safe talking to Bittle. He doesn’t remember ever feeling this safe talking to Parse.

Bittle is warm and sweet and Jack doesn’t know how he knows that, just know that it’s true in a way that only the harshest things in life tend to be. And it’s a pleasant surprise. Jack from two years ago--Jack who woke up with a small, blond boyfriend and bigger arms than he remembers having--probably wouldn’t be able to find that simple happiness, wouldn’t be able to latch onto someone so pure and let them close enough to get them to stay.

Whatever has happened to Jack that he’s lost, he’s happy it happened if it got him here, freakshow memory loss or not. Bittle is cozy and Jack doesn’t know how he got lucky enough to catch that, but he hopes he doesn’t mess it up with all the memories that seem to have slipped away from them both.

 ****  
  


* * *

 

 

“So, like,” Bittle says. “It’s weird that it’s both of us, right? Like...This all seems within the realm of possibility for what my life could be like in two years time. Or. Now’s time. From my perspective two years ago. Ugh.”

“Even having a very handsome, famous boyfriend?” Jack smiles in Bittle’s direction, and he rolls his eyes.

But he’s laughing when he says, “In my wildest dreams, maybe.”

“You dream about my ass?” Jack asks. He caught Bittle looking. Bittle blushes but doesn’t deny it. It’s easy.

 ****  


* * *

 

It takes Jack a while to think of it, but once he starts trying to retrace their steps, it feels easier. He’s always done better with a purpose. They’re sitting on Jack’s bed, backs to the wall and feet hanging off the side, when Jack opens the calendar app on his phone and says, “Okay, so we played a game yesterday.”

He tilts the screen so Bittle can see. “What’s that acronym stand for? SSU?”

“Oh,” Jack says. “Um. Salem State University? The Vikings. Weak defense, if they’re anything like they were uh, two years ago.”

Bittle is quiet for a long minute before he says, “You don’t think…”

“There’s no way,” Jack says. “That’s crazy.”

“Impossible, really,” Bittle says.

“But?”

Bittle shrugs. “But here we are, I guess. I’d’ve said that this was impossible, yesterday, too. Magic’s not real,” he says. “There aren’t...like...evil witches at Salem State who cursed us. That’s…”

“Crazy,” Jack repeats. They sit in silence again for a moment, and Jack reaches to squeeze Bittle’s knee. Bittle places his hand over Jack’s and Jack turns his palm over so that Bittle can intertwine their finger. Jack runs his thumb softly over the skin of Bittle’s knuckle.

“If this were going to happen with anyone,” Bittle says. “I think I’m glad it was you. I know we don’t, like, know each other, not really, not right now. But I think it’d be worse, if I couldn’t remember and you could.”

“Yeah,” Jack says, because he understands. He wants to lean into Bittle’s space, crowd him and press their bodies together. They could stay in Jack’s bed all day, and Jack doesn’t think he’d ever get bored. He places their locked hands on Bittle’s thigh and he says, “Is this okay?”

Bittle nods and says, “Yes,” in a firm voice. He doesn’t sound conflicted at all, and when Jack meets his eyes, he looks happy, like he wants to kiss Jack the way Jack wants to kiss him. It’s reassuring, at the very least, to know that they’re on the same page with that.

Jack is leaning towards Bittle, wants to rest their foreheads together--and isn’t that a weird thought--when the door to his bedroom swings open and Ransom says, “Jacky, what’s--Oh, Jesus. Shit, sorry, I’ll--”

Jack leans back out of Bittle’s space immediately, but doesn’t drop Bittle’s hand, leaves their clasped hands where they are, high on Bittle’s thigh.

“Rans, it’s fine. What’s up?”

“No, no, I can absolutely definitely come back,” he says, already closing the door.

Bittle starts to laugh and says, “Guess there’s not a lot of quiet time around here, huh?”

Jack laughs and says, “No, not really.”

 ****  
  


* * *

 

Bittle makes dinner, but he stays quiet while everyone digs in to their meals. He mostly just watches intently. He watches as Shitty and Lardo rant about something they both agree on, even though they sound like they’re arguing. He listens carefully when Ransom and Holster start talking about a TV show that neither Bittle nor Jack really know anything about. Jack watches him watching them.

It’s a nice time, other than the fact that Shitty and Ransom are clearly whispering about them when they first come down stairs. Jack hates the way that Bittle’s shoulders go tense when they both fall silent when they catch sight of Jack’s hand on Bittle’s shoulder.

It takes until after dinner for them to get any breathing room again, and when Jack dries the dishes that Bittle washes, Bittle explains. “I guess it’s just. I don’t know. In my mind, I’ve never come out to anyone. Where I live, or, my family, I guess. It’s not really...It wouldn’t be safe. So when they do that, it just. It feels like what would happen at school, on a milder day.”

Jack touches his fingers to Bittle’s gently when he passes Jack a frying pan to dry, and Jack holds his eyes. “I promise you’re safe here. They wouldn’t--but I wouldn’t let anyone, okay? I’ve got your back.”

Bittle nods, swallows tightly. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, okay. Me too, with yours, I mean.”

 ****  


 

* * *

 ****  
  


 

Bittle is still tense when they’re done dinner, and Jack understands why he’s hesitant to spend too much time with the guys. Bittle doesn’t know them, can’t even rely on outdated information to get him through a conversation. So when Shitty raises his eyebrows in Jack’s direction when they’re done tidying up the kitchen, Jack says, “We’re gonna go for a walk.”

None of them question it, and they seem oddly quiet to Jack. But Jack just says, “Bittle, you better wear a proper jacket,” they all groan like it’s normal.

Jack pulls on his Blundstones and zips up his coat while Bittle ties his shoelaces, and as they’re headed out the door, Shitty says, “Have fun, lovebirds.”

Jack puts his middle finger in the air without looking back into the Haus, and closes the door once Bittle ducks under his arm and down to the street.

 

* * *

 ****  


They get hot chocolates from Annie’s, and it’s peaceful. It’s not late enough for partygoers to be out on the streets yet, and it’s cold enough that there aren’t many stragglers. Jack’s nose feels cold, but he’s warm where his side is pressed along Bittle’s, where his arm over Bittle’s shoulder touches Bittle’s neck, his fingers grazing the side of Bittle’s arm. It’s a nice evening, simple in a way that not many things are. Jack realizes that he’s happy.

He says, “I know this is a crazy day, but I’m still really happy. I think, um. I think you probably make me really happy.”

Bittle’s skin flushes, and his lips turn up at the corners. “Y’know,” he says. “Somehow, I know exactly what you mean.”

Jack’s about to respond, and he’s watching the complexity of Bittle’s face when he bumps his shoulder into someone, knocks them harder than he should.

“Sorry,” he says, turning to check that the passerby is okay, and he’s hit with deja vu.

_Didn’t see you there_ , he hears Shitty say.

“No worries,” the guy says, waves them off. Jack lets his arm fall back against Bittle’s shoulder.

_Kinda like the way you can’t see a puck until it’s in the back of your net._

Like something obvious, Jack thinks. He shakes his head. “Sorry,” he says to Bittle. “What were you saying?”

“That we’re the happiest, sweetest, gayest couple on the planet?” Bittle says, laughing.

“Right,” Jack says, still a little bit thrown but smiling anyway. “Exactly that.”

 ****  
  
  


* * *

 

 

 

When they get back to the Haus, the living room is clear. As they climb the stairs, Jack can hear Ransom and Holster in the attic. Shitty’s door is open, his bed made, the lights off. Jack doesn’t know where he would have gone, but it doesn’t really matter.

Both the bathrooms are free, so they both shower. Jack doesn’t suggest that they shower together, even though he thinks about it. It doesn’t seem fair, or right. He’s in his own body, sure, but he’s not sure if it’s good form, doesn’t know what the protocol should be, just knows that he knows it wouldn’t be a hundred percent right, somehow.

When Jack’s done, he dresses in his pajamas and sits on his bed. He plays a few rounds of a game on his phone that is easy enough to figure out. He matches five blue candies in a row and beats a level because of it, and he feels oddly accomplished. When Bittle comes to stand in his doorway, he tosses his phone onto his desk and says, “Wanna sleep in here?”

“In your twin bed?”

Jack shrugs. “We could make room, probably.” He smiles, and Bittle smiles too.

“You’re a ridiculous flirt, do you know that?” Bittle asks, but he walks closer to Jack. Jack stands, pulls the covers back.

“Inside or outside?” He asks. “You like my flirting.”

“Inside?” Bittle says. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Inside it is,” Jack says.

When they’re settled, side by side and looking at each other in a kind of awkward silence, Bittle says, “I do.”

“Do what?”

“Like your flirting.”

Jack reaches out and rests his hand on Bittle’s side, draws a small pattern with his fingers over the soft fabric of Bittle’s t-shirt. “That’s good,” Jack says.

Bittle reaches to cart his fingers through the still wet hair at Jack’s temple. “I know this sounds crazy, but the me who hasn’t lived this, who can’t remember this--I’ve never...not with anyone before but. But this is really nice,” he says. “I literally never would have imagined that this could be my life.”

Jack scoots closer to Bittle, kisses his cheek gently before pressing their foreheads together like he’d wanted too early. “If I’m being honest,” Jack says, “I never would’ve imagined this either. It seems...surprising.”

“Good though?” Bittle asks. He sounds exhausted, and Jack can feel his own body relaxing, winding down now that they’re horizontal.

“Yeah,” Jack says. “Good surprise.”

 ****  
  


* * *

 

 

The first thing that Jack becomes aware of when he wakes up is that he’s warm. Really warm. Second is that there is definitely another body pressed into his body. Third is that he has both a boner and a headache, which is a cruel existence if he says so himself.

He opens his eyes and tries to blink the groggy feeling from his head. His vision clears after a few seconds, and when he tilts his head down, he’s caught by the head of blond hair that is tucked under his chin. He has a hand around the warm body, and it only takes a second for him to peg the body as Bittle’s. Which.

Oh.

_Oh._

He clears his throat, and Bittle presses back into Jack. He presses closer, which Jack hadn’t actually thought was possible, but his dick can definitely tell the difference. “Bittle,” he says. It comes out raspy, and Bittle groans softly.

“Bitty, c’mon, wake up.”

Bittle says, “What?” He sounds cranky, but it only takes a second before Jack can feel his whole body go rigid. His muscles don’t relax, and he stays tense until Jack moves his hand from Bittle’s stomach to his ribs, and pats him lightly.

“Oh, Christ,” Bittle says. “What the--”

“You remember yesterday?”

Bittle groans, and tries to hide his face in the pillow under his cheek. He mutters something that Jack thinks is along the lines of “something, something, so embarrassing.”

Jack taps his fingers on Bittle’s side, and refuses to let any panic rise in his gut. He takes a deep breath and says, “Can you believe we got, like, cursed? In Salem?” That has to be it, Jack thinks. It’s all just. It’s nuts. It’s impossible. Jack’s been trying to find the nerve to talk to Bittle about their coffee dates for weeks, and then. Just. Wham, Bam, Thank you Salem.

Bittle turns around and presses his nose into Jack’s chest, and he starts laughing. Hysterically. Jack starts laughing too. “I cannot believe this,” he says, and Jack smiles.

“I’d say that neither do I, but.” He shrugs, and he can feel Bittle’s laughter pick up again. Jack chances it and kisses the top of his head. Bittle snakes his arm around Jack’s back, presses his fingers into Jack’s spine. Jack’s headache feels like it was never there, and Bittle’s laughter is contagious.

“Can you shut the fuck up?” Shitty yells through the wall. “It’s seven a.m., fuck off already, we get it, you’re getting laid.”

“Oh my God,” Bittle says, and he presses his entire face into Jack’s chest, laughs into the fabric of Jack’s t-shirt.

When they both calm down, Jack traces his fingers up and down Bittle’s back and asks, “Think you can get back to sleep?”

“Maybe,” Bittle says. “I feel exhausted, actually. I just. Are we doing this? Actually? Is this a dream?”

“Don’t think so,” Jack says. “I want to try, if you do. We can talk about it later.”

Jack feels keyed up, but he feels the exhaustion, too. He knows he had a good night’s sleep, but he doesn’t know about the rest. “Curse hangover,” he says, and his words slur a bit.

Bittle mumbles something that Jack doesn’t catch. His eyelids feel heavy again before he knows it. With Bittle pressed into his body, Jack thinks he could fall asleep anywhere. It’s like they were made to fit against each other. Jack feels amazing--happy and warm--as they drift back to sleep curled into each other. It’s the best feeling Jack’s ever had.

It’s like magic.

 ****  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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